


Fuss

by Mottlemoth



Category: God's Own Country
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Johnny and Gheorghe care for each other during a nasty bout of flu.





	Fuss

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes its Teen Rating to canon-typical bad language, but is otherwise soft and fluffy throughout.

It takes down Gheorghe first.

In the days running up to Christmas, he's not quite right—tired, quiet and grey beneath his eyes. He's taking longer to get things done. It's not through lack of trying—he's still up with Johnny before dawn each day, and never in the house for more than a few minutes while it's light—but there's clearly something in him, dragging him down.

By Christmas Eve, he's snuffly and blowing his nose every minute. His eyes have reddened, streaming in the cold, and even three jumpers haven't stopped him shivering. He looks like all he wants is to curl up somewhere quiet. He's not talking to the beasts anymore, just quietly feeding them and getting on.

Johnny watches him for a couple of hours from the corner of his eye, concerned. He starts finishing the heavy jobs before Gheorghe can get to them.

When Gheorghe catches him repairing the hole in the barn by himself, his face falls.

"You started without me," he mumbles, rolling up his sleeves as he comes over. "You said later..."

"S'okay. I've got it. Go get a brew on."

Gheorghe gives him a small, weary frown. "I am fine."

"Sure?"

"Yes. Sure."

Johnny raises an eyebrow, shunting the new plank into place with his boot. "You don't look it."

Gheorghe avoids his eyes.

"I'm fine," he mutters. "I can help."

"Good t'hear. You can help by making a brew. I'm gasping."

Gheorghe's forehead crumples. "You cannot do this alone."

"With a brew in me, maybe."

The reluctant smile lifts Johnny's spirits. He leans against the side of the barn, folding his arms across his chest.

"You're not right," he says, flatly. "Death warmed up."

Gheorghe drops his eyes. He looks away across the yard, finally buckling under the truth. "I'm... perhaps a little under the weather." He reaches into his pocket for his hankie. "I think I have cold."

"Sure it's not flu?" Johnny studies him. "Not seen you eat a thing all day."

Gheorghe mutters into his hankie. "I'm not hungry," he says, and blows his nose.

Johnny bites the inside of his cheek as he watches. He lays his hammer down against the barnside. "Here," he murmurs, as Gheorghe fumbles the hankie away into his pocket. "S'have a feel of you." He puts the back of his hand on Gheorghe's forehead. "Christ, Georgie... you're burning up..."

Gheorghe says nothing, still miserably avoiding his gaze.

"Flu," Johnny diagnoses. He waits until Gheorghe looks up at him. "Feed a cold, starve a fever. You should be in bed."

"We have work to do."

"Managed alright before you, didn't I?" Seeing Gheorghe's mouth twitch, Johnny gives him a half smile. "Managed the work alright, anyway. I'll manage a day on my own. Go on. Get inside."

Gheorghe hesitates, watching him. "You're... _sure_ you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine. Christ. Fussin'." Johnny glances around to make sure they're on their own, then gives him a grin. "Mother hen, you." He reaches up to run his fingers over Gheorghe's cheek. "Look after y'self for once. Right?"

Gheorghe's gaze softens. "Is there much left for you to do?"

"No. Finish this off, couple other bits. Feed t'beasts. Job's a good'un." Johnny nods over Gheorghe's shoulder. "Now in with you. If you're not upstairs in bed in five minutes, I'll be vexed."

He watches Gheorghe's expression crumple with humour, discomfort and relief at once.

"If you're sure," he says.

Johnny nods, picking up the hammer again. "Sure m'sure."

A few minutes later, Gheorghe comes back across the yard. He's out of his overalls, carrying a tray with a chipped mug of milky tea and a half-finished packet of jaffa cakes.

Johnny watches, a smile kindling on his mouth.

Gheorghe lowers the tray to the ground with care. He turns the handle of the mug so it's ready to pick up, and pulls the inner plastic tray out of the cardboard sleeve a little.

As he gets up again, he glances at Johnny.

Johnny raises both eyebrows. "Now in," he says.

Fond, and weary, Gheorghe relents.

Johnny watches him cross the yard, his chest tight at the slowness of his tread. Gheorghe must be suffering. _Quiet day tomorrow, anyway. Telly. Proper food._ He'll nip to the pharmacy in the village before it shuts, pick up something that'll help with flu.

The door of the farmhouse closes with a quiet clunk, and Johnny gets back to his repairs.

An hour later, before he heads out to the pharmacy, he makes a quick check around the bedroom door.

Gheorghe is sound asleep. The curtains are drawn tight across the window, the covers pulled high over his head. Even from the door he can hear Gheorghe's laboured breathing, struggling to pull air through his blocked nose.

He's still asleep when Johnny gets back.

He leaves a cup of water on the bedside, along with a pack of branded cold and flu relief pills, a box of posh Kleenex with balsam, and a card from the post office he thought was funny. _SORRY YOU FEEL LIKE SHITE,_ in massive black capital letters. Inside he's written:  _get well soon dickhead._

At first, he'd added just one kiss.

When his nan had stopped slyly peering over his shoulder, he'd added two more.

 

*

 

Johnny turns in early that night. There's nothing on the telly worth staying up for, and the day's work by himself has left him shattered. He has a quick bath, switches off the light and crawls into bed, burrowing with enjoyment into the scalding heat radiating from Gheorghe's back.

His lover stirs, drawn briefly from his sleep.

"John...?" he whispers.

Johnny snuggles close, wraps a protective arm around his chest and lays his hand flat over Gheorghe's heart.

"Only me." He kisses Gheorghe's shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

Weakly Gheorghe protests, his voice thick with the stuffiness of his nose. "No, you'll get sick, too. Don't come in here."

"S'fine. Not been poorly in years. I've got a proper immune system."

"John..."

"Hush up, now." Johnny rests his arm along the top of the pillows, stroking his fingers over Gheorghe's forehead. "There," he says, as Gheorghe's eyes close with exhaustion. He lets his voice grow as soft as he can make it. "All alright.  You just sleep."

Gheorghe swallows. "I'll snore," he warns. "My nose is..."

"Yeah?" Johnny kisses his hot cheek. "What's new, then?"

The twist of Gheorghe's mouth makes his heart give a little hop.

"Cruel to me," Gheorghe mumbles. He lays his hand over Johnny's on his chest; their fingers tangle. "Good to me."

Johnny nuzzles the tip of his nose through Gheorghe's curls.

"You'll be right, love." It still feels strange, sometimes—like he's not really allowed to say things like that, feel this way, be this happy. It's getting easier with time, though. Seeing Gheorghe glow for him is the best feeling in the world. "Happens to us all. Just gotta let it pass."

"I will be fine," Gheorghe mumbles. He draws a long, low breath. "I just... need to sleep..."

Gently Johnny presses his lips to Gheorghe's temple. The murmured word forms a kiss. "Aye."

 

*

 

Gheorghe barely stirs on Christmas Day. Whatever sickness is burning its way through him, the remedy seems to be sleep. Johnny keeps the work light, making sure the animals are fed and watered but leaving all the rest for tomorrow.

Nan has spoiled them a bit for Christmas—gammon and a proper pudding. She's made them both jumpers and matching socks. Johnny eats until he can barely move, heads upstairs to check on Gheorghe and ends up falling asleep tucked in behind him, too warm and comfortable to move. Nan has to come get him to fetch the sheep in.

In the evening, once the sun's gone down, Gheorghe wakes up for a while. Johnny gets some food into him, makes sure he's had painkillers and helps him into the bath. The water seems to make him shiver; his skin is hyper-sensitive and hot to the touch.

Two minutes after getting back in bed, he's fast asleep again.

Johnny holds him in the quiet, smiling, stroking his hair as he breathes.

 

*

 

By tea time on the 27th, Gheorghe is on the mend. He comes down to eat with them and sit by the telly for a while, warm in his new jumper and half-hidden under a heavy blanket. Johnny keeps an eye on him, bringing him painkillers and cups of tea, then shepherds him back off to bed by nine.

In the morning, Gheorghe insists he's coming out to help. He's up, dressed and feeding the pigs before any argument on the matter can be had. Johnny almost wants to insist—but the truth is he's glad of the help again. There's always a lot to do, even with two of them, and they get through the work so much faster together. They're more than the sum of their parts.

They take it slowly, take it easy—and within a couple more days, Gheorghe seems as good as new.

 

*

 

As night draws in on New Year's Eve, Johnny finds himself strangely hot and nervous. He snaps at Gheorghe as they're trying to get the cows fed; he can't really stand the chattering of the telly after tea. It makes him feel restless and unsafe somehow, as if the noise is trapped under his skin.

He runs himself a bath to try and ease the ache that darkness has set into his shoulders, but by the time he's drying off, it's reached his arms and legs. He feels touchy and jumpy, like he should be away from people. Trying to do the accounts at the kitchen table, the numbers swim before his eyes.

Gheorghe's hands lay on his shoulders.

"You're not feeling well?" he asks, rubbing.

Johnny bites into his tongue. "Gotta finish these," he mutters. "No bugger else'll do 'em."

"I can do them."

"You don't know how."

"You think I don't know how to add up?"

"That's not what I said," Johnny snaps, stiffening, and the gentle hug that wraps around his shoulders from behind only leaves him feeling more prickly. "It's more complicated than that, alright? There's more to it. You can't do 'em. Only I can do 'em. Like everything bloody else around here."

Gheorghe doesn't say anything. He simply holds Johnny quietly in his arms, rubbing a thumb against his elbow.

"I'm fine," Johnny says, annoyed. "Nothing wrong with me. Tired. S'all."

Gheorghe begins to rock him very gently, very slowly, side-to-side.

"I don't need fuss," Johnny snaps.

Gheorghe hums against his hair, still rocking him. "Perhaps an early night?"

"Christ. Like I'm a kid."

"Like you are sick," his lover says, softly—and the gentleness somehow hurts. Johnny doesn't even know why. His eyes are suddenly hot with withheld tears, his body aching with misery. "I think these can wait," Gheorghe says, sliding the accounts away across the table. He takes the pen from Johnny's grip. "And I think we'll get you painkillers, and something to drink, and we'll take you to bed."

Johnny's throat muscles work, painfully loud in the quiet kitchen.

Gheorghe strokes through his hair. "Mm?"

A shudder of distress prickles its way down Johnny's back. He didn't mean to whisper, but he does. "D-Don't feel so well. Think I've got your..."

"I had a feeling." Gheorghe kisses his hairline. "You need to sleep."

"Sorry." Johnny shuts his eyes, desperate not to cry. The heat is unbearable. "S-Sorry I snapped. I feel crap."

"Say sorry to me by sleeping." Gheorghe steps back, reaching for his hand. "Come with me, _iubițel._ Let's go to bed."

Weak, unsure when his vision started swaying, Johnny gets up from the table. He follows Gheorghe meekly to the foot of the stairs.

Gheorghe presses a quiet kiss to his shoulder.

"One minute," he murmurs, lets go of Johnny's hand and steps briefly into the living room. Johnny doesn't hear what's said. He's too busy holding onto the bannister, resisting the urge to slump against the wall. When Gheorghe reappears, his gaze is so gentle and concerned it almost hurts. "I'm here," he says softly, taking Johnny's outstretched hand. He lays the other on the small of Johnny's back, guiding him with each step. "Slow. Take your time."

Upstairs, behind the closed door of their bedroom, the tears start. Johnny finds himself helpless to stop them rolling down his face. He isn't even sure why he's crying, except through sheer bloody exhaustion. He feels so sorry for himself he wants to howl.

Gheorghe gets him undressed and into bed, murmuring to him in Romanian.

The wrap of the covers starts him crying again.

"Shhh..." Gheorghe pulls him close, gathering Johnny safe against his chest. His fingers wind through Johnny's hair. "Shhh, now... _sunt aici pentru tine,_ mm? _Voi fi aici..._ you'll be fine..."

Silent, feather-soft kisses dot along Johnny's hairline. Their coolness cuts through the tightening pain.

"Love you," he whimpers, and feels Gheorghe smile against his forehead.

"Now I know for sure you're sick."

"M-Mean it."

"I know you do." Gheorghe gathers the covers around his neck, cradling him. "You're going to stay here for few days. You're going to sleep and get better."

"Can't—got loads to do—"

"Ah—no. You're going to sleep. I will take care of the rest."  

"Georgie—"

"We're done talking." Gheorghe kisses the top of his head. "Stay here," he murmurs, slipping out of Johnny's arms. "I'll bring your medicine. Would you like tea?"

"Nnh."

Gheorghe smiles, tucking the covers around him. "I'll bring you some anyway."

 

*

 

For the first two days, Johnny feels so ill it's hard to keep track of time. It doesn't feel like the hours are passing, more like they're trying to drown him. Sometimes he lies awake for long stretches, fully lucid and staring at the embroidered pattern on the duvet, overwhelmed to the point of nausea by the detail in the stitching. At other times, he closes his eyes for just a second and opens them to find it's dark, and Gheorghe is stroking his cheek, coaxing him to sit up slowly to take his painkillers. He gets up to pee a hundred thousand times, shivering in the bathroom, wondering if the edge of the loo seat has always been painful to sit on, if it's always been so cold in here it seems to echo. Every inch of his skin prickles; his muscles ache to hell. The constant throbbing of his head makes him feel like he's going to throw up at any moment, and beneath it, every second of it, guilt and distress pulse like a second heartbeat.  Gheorghe must be doing everything. Sometimes he's here, holding Johnny and stroking his head. Sometimes he's not.

Johnny feels too weak even to ask if things are okay.

Tea keeps appearing on the bedside cabinet. When Gheorghe's there, he remembers to drink it. When Gheorghe's not, it goes cold.

Gheorghe brings endless bowls of some warm, thin broth for him to eat. Johnny can only guess at the taste—right now, everything tastes like the inside of his nose. Gheorghe sits with him and makes sure he eats it, spooning the stuff gently into his mouth until he falls asleep again.

Towards the end of the second day, a mug of tea appears which smells different.

"S'at?" Johnny croaks, as the bed creaks softly under Gheorghe's weight.

"You will hate it," Gheorghe remarks, amused. He peels back the covers gently; the shock of the air makes Johnny shudder. "Sit up, please."

It hurts to sit. Johnny curls into Gheorghe's side, nuzzling fretfully against his shoulder.

Gheorghe guides the mug into his hands.

"I can add more honey, if you need," Gheorghe says. "Try, first. It will help."

Dubious, Johnny takes a sip. He grimaces, his hands curling tight around the mug. _"Christ —" _

"It is ginger, cayenne powder and... ah, _usturoi..._ garlic."

"W-Why would you?"

"Because it's good for you."

"T-Tastes like shit—"

"You _look_ like shit." Gheorghe kisses his forehead. "And you feel like shit, too, mm? So drink the fucking tea."

Huffing, Johnny takes a reluctant sip.

"Can you not just pour it up my nose?" he asks.

Gheorghe chuckles against his hair. "Could work," he admits. He strokes Johnny's shoulder with his thumb as he drinks. "Would you like a bath?"

"No," Johnny mumbles against the edge of the mug. He closes his eyes, feeling the steam drift over his face. "Just... wanna sleep, t'be honest."

"Mm. Sleep is good for you now."

"M'sorry." Johnny presses his cheek against Gheorghe's collarbones, swallowing. "Dumped you with all the grafting. All the work."

"Shhh... it's not your fault."

"S'hard, though, in winter. S'worse. Hard enough wi'two of us."

"You worked alone while I was sick," Gheorghe says, gently. "Now I work alone while you are sick..."

He nudges the mug in Johnny's hands.

"'Happens to us all'," he murmurs. "'Got to let it pass'."

Johnny smiles weakly. "I feel guilty," he mumbles, lifting the mug to his mouth.

Gheorghe pulls the covers up around him. "Don't. There's no need."

Johnny inhales the steam of his tea, telling himself to believe it. The quiet beat of Gheorghe's heart beneath his ear helps.

"Just one of them things," he says. He draws a slow breath. "Be right soon."

"Of course you will." Gheorghe's fingers rumple through his hair. "Finish your shit tea, and it will be sooner."

 

*

 

It's worse in the night—all of it. His nose, the headache, the pounding of his heart. It's hard to breathe, and it's easy to become distressed. He's tired of hearing himself cough and heave. Each day, he thinks he's maybe getting better; then the night rolls in, the hours grow long, and he starts to think he's getting worse.

Nestling closer to Gheorghe makes it all go quiet.

His lover's skin is the only thing in the world that feels comfortable to touch. Everything else is too hot or too cold, too sharp, too much—but Gheorghe is perfectly warm. He feels just right. His arms wrap around Johnny as if there's nothing to worry about, and when he strokes the back of Johnny's neck, his fingertips are slow and easy as a Sunday evening.

He murmurs things into Johnny's hair. Sometimes they're in English; sometimes it's a language Johnny doesn't speak, but somehow still understands. Even when Gheorghe's asleep, it feels like he's here.

With nothing else to fill the quiet hours, Johnny fills them by loving him.

He gazes at every detail in his face, until he thinks he could draw it all from memory—Gheorghe's eyelashes, his soft nose, the curve of his mouth. He touches the curls in Gheorghe's hair and moves them through his fingers, slow, not wanting to wake him. He runs his thumb over Gheorghe's beard; he watches the black bristles flatten. He smiles to himself, letting it be alright.

Sooner or later, he settles back to sleep.

 

*

 

Adding honey doesn't help.

It just makes hot garlic tea taste like hot garlic tea with honey.

Johnny starts forcing himself to drink it first, necking the whole mug with his eyes screwed shut, then letting the taste of the broth clean his mouth out.

"Did you make this?" he asks on the fourth day, as Gheorghe arranges a thicker blanket over the bed.

Gheorghe nods, tucking the corners beneath the mattress.

Johnny scrapes the bottom of the bowl quietly, retrieving the last with his spoon. "S'nice."

His lover's eyes lift, a pleased flash of deepest brown.

"My mother's recipe," he says, reaching for the empty bowl. Johnny hands it over. "I'm glad you like it."

Johnny smiles a little.

"Should've told me it," he says. "I'd've made you some."

Gheorghe smiles, too. "Next time, you can."

"I will." Johnny watches Gheorghe tidy the room a bit, gathering crumpled tissues up from the floor. "You... sure you're okay wi'me still...?"

Gheorghe drops the tissues into the bin, leans over the bed, and wraps his fingers around the back of Johnny's neck.

"One more day to make you strong," he murmurs, drawing him close. He kisses Johnny's lips. "A few things, I'll need your help with when you are well. But they can wait." He reaches over, snagging the last few tissues from the bedside. "I'll bring you more soup for lunch. Now sleep, please."

Johnny smiles, lowering his eyes. His skin tingles quietly where Gheorghe has touched. His lips feel warm.

He watches his lover move away towards the door.

"Georgie?" he says, as Gheorghe reaches it.

Gheorghe turns back to him. One eyebrow lifts in expectation.

Johnny holds the words in his mouth for just a moment. They feel a little strange, even now—but it's no reason not to say them.

"I love you. Thanks for fussing."

He watches Gheorghe glow.

"Perhaps I like to fuss." Gheorghe smiles; his dark eyes crinkle with amusement. "Get well soon, dickhead. I love you too."

He heads away down the stairs.

For the first time in days, Johnny grins.

 


End file.
